Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Time, infinitely small yet light years afar.

She stares at the picture, necklace dangling from her neck. It hovers over her scattered cosmetics, unsteady fingers causing it to shake.

Seated at the timeworn vanity, its paint chipping, mildew creeping up its jaunty legs, Mia tries to affect calm, fighting back the rise of anxiety; a lingering threat; a constant peril like a slumbering fiend.

One trigger can awaken mayhem.

Mia’s eyes stray to her past self, only a child; innocent and pure. That girl died seven years ago because the one in the mirror killed her, too.

Mia glances at her reflection.

Young Mia was alive with sun-kissed tawny skin, an unblemished ocherous hue.

The reflection is a colorless contradiction with washed-out skin that flakes, eyes like dying embers, life sapped from her bones, leaving behind a hollow vessel with too many sharp angles.

Keila’s smiling face demands her attention—as eye-catching as she was then as she is now.

She’d had platinum blonde hair from birth to adolescence, more white than blonde. A pixie-like girl who blossomed into a beautiful young woman with bewitching siren features.

The door swings open behind her—Mia jolts, dropping the picture.

“Why are you so jumpy?”

“Why are you so invasive?”

Irene shifts her weight to one foot, crossing her arms challengingly.

“This is my house. I’m going to invade if I feel like invading.” Her eyes take in Mia’s state with a skim of her frame. “You want to drive, or do you want me to drop you off?”

Mia swivels around on the backless seat to face her. “Don’t you need it?”

“I can work remotely.” Worry weaves her brows together. “I think with everything going on, I’m going to be staying home a lot more.

“The town is quaking with the news of Keila’s disappearance that’s emulating Erin’s demise. The whole town is one big old search grid, everyone trying to look for her.”

Mia grimaces, her eyes locked on a random spot on the ground. “Demise?”

Irene bristles, words roiling in her mouth. “She’s gone, Mia.”

Mia’s eyes snap to her mother.

“Everyone’s looking for Keila but still haven’t found Erin because they gave up on her. Even her own mother—I could never—until this day she hasn’t been found.”

“Because there’s no body to find,” Mia blurts before her mind can think to put on a guard.

Irene straightens up, semi-alarmed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Mia springs to her feet. “I have to get ready.”

She zooms past her mom, heading for the bathroom.

After she showers, she selects an all-black outfit with Doc Martens, cargo pants, and an oversize jacket with fleece lining and a graphic print at the back.

She leaves her hair loose for the time being with a hairband ready around her wrist.

Mia plucks up her schoolbag and makes a wearisome descent to the ground floor.

“I think I’ll just take the car.” Her eyes wander to her mom planted in the living room. The wooden top table is decked with portfolios and an array of folders. “I’m gonna come back later than usual.”

Irene peers at her from over her gold-frame reading glasses. “Special plans?”

Mia snorts. “Extra classes.”

Irene mimics her snort. “Liar.”

She sets her laptop beside her on the couch. “I may be absent, but I’m not ignorant. I know your schedule, baby.

“You finish school every day at three, sharp, since the start of senior year. Apart from the days I allow you to bunk.”

Mia frees a pent-up breath.

“Wanna try again?” she asks jokingly. “This time, try the truth.”

~You couldn’t comprehend the truth~, Mia thought.

She gives a flippant shrug.

“Not really extra classes.” She summons a truth to mask another truth. “Extra credit, you know, so it can look good on my application.”

Her mother’s brows spring to her hairline. “Since when have you cared about university?”

“Since I entered my last year of high school.” The best lie is always another truth. “So I can get into the farthest school and leave this town for good.”

Irene pouts at the possibility. “I always thought you were a Braidwood baby.”

Suddenly too close to anger, it prompts her to say,

“Yeah, because I want to stay in a town that reminds me how my dad abandoned me, my best friend went missing, and my mother’s coping mechanism is to drown herself in work to distract herself from her own anguish.”

Irene snatches the glasses off her face, surging to her feet. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry.” The words fly out like arrows, pivoting to walk away. “I didn’t mean it, okay, I’m sorry.”

“No, come back here.” Irene wags a finger toward her daughter. “Say what you want to say. You are not going to continue to bury your emotions. I won’t let you suffocate on them.”

“I’m not suffocating,” Mia says through gritted teeth. ~I’m dying~. “I’m fine, alright? I still talk to Dr. Jo, okay. I’m going to be late for school.”

“~Amelia~,” Irene barks.

Mia freezes, then twists her shoulders to look back at her.

“I do not~ drown ~myself in my work,” she begins, hurt encroaching her stern voice. “I work hard not only because I love what I do, but because I need to provide for you.

“You think the mortgage is just going to pay itself? School fees, now tuition. Who has to cover all of that?” Her finger stabs her chest. “Me.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry I’m such a burden.”

Irene throws a curse into the air. “Mia, I never said that. Being a mother is the greatest joy of my life—you are the greatest joy of my life. My efforts are all to give you the opportunities and life you deserve.”

Mist forms in Mia’s eyes. She blinks the tears away.

“As for your father…” Irene trails off, impounding what her heart wishes to speak. “I have made peace with his decision. And in time, you will too.

“Never forget that no matter his actions, he still loves you. He will always love you.”

“This doesn’t feel like lo—” Tears burst from Mia’s eyes.

“Can we just go?” A sob slurs her words. “I wa-want to leave.”

Irene rushes to her at the speed of light, encompassing her in the warm, all-loving embrace of a mother.

Mia clings to her and weeps freely into her chest. Irene shushes her softly, stroking her hair, slim fingers combing through her dull strands.

“I know it is difficult to understand,” she whispers, her own eyes becoming glassy. “But one day you will. I promise.”

She pulls Mia away so she can look into her eyes earnestly. She grips her face gingerly.

“Your father never lied. Just because he is gone, his love still exists—”

“In a hundred lifetimes and a thousand different realities. I know.”

“Good.” Irene releases Mia’s face. “And don’t you ever forget it or question it.”

“How could you forgive him so easily?”

“Because there are things you don’t know. Complicated things. We spoke about this already.”

“Vaguely,” Mia mumbles.

“School.” Irene points to the door. “If you’re coming back late, I’m going to have to take you there because I need the car later. I’m meeting up with some old friends.”

Mia drags her sleeve across her cheek. “Who?”

“Angie Venus made a call,” she says with a surprised chortle, swiping a dry hand across a wet cheek. “Can you believe it? Haven’t spoken to the woman in nearly a decade.”

Mia’s hand drops like a deadweight by her side. “What? Why does she want to talk to you?”

“I don’t know, baby. It’s probably about Keila.”

“Why?” A sharp inflection in her voice. “What does she think you know?”

A frown tautens Irene’s face. “Maybe she just needs comfort. Once upon a time, we had a mom club. We were friends because our children were friends. If any parent understands, it’s me and the other moms.”

***

The moms’ meeting is at a palatial building on south Main Street in the heart of downtown Braidwood. Irene is the last to arrive at the swanky spot.

The establishment is split into several rooms, each of which has a distinct design and color scheme.

Emerald globe lights mounted on brass fixtures continue from the patisserie into the main dining room, where cherry-red leather covers banquette seating that forms a strip down the center.

A symmetrical procession of columns with chamfered corners are wrapped in reclaimed tile and connect with sculptural ceiling beams.

The table of moms sits interspaced between the wood-paneled bar facing both the restaurant and an adjacent seating area, surrounded by tall arched windows framed with green marble.

Irene constructs an amiable expression, pulling a smile the way a puppet master controls a marionette. The women stand to embrace her with a welcome reception, trading hugs with the mothers of Opal and Akin.

Two more seats are present but both remain unoccupied. Aries’s mother had passed on and everyone else endures Katherine’s prolonged absence.

They all exchange a tirade of pleasantries with plastic smiles, busying themselves with small talk to distract from a larger disquiet.

“I can’t believe it’s been so long,” Angie says.

Opal’s mother, Daiyu, observes them with intense disdain veneered with complacency.

A waiter drifts by to collect their orders. Once he has them, he leaves them to their cold pleasure.

The restaurant has a fancy family-dining ambiance and aesthetic; although it is upscale, it bears a certain comfort.

Whether it be the warm tones of the color scheme or the cushioned seating, its sparse population also offers the illusion of privacy. Only a handful of people here and there, but enough to loan discretion.

“Angie,” Akin’s mother, Jada, says, “I just wanted to say how sorry I am about everything that’s been happening. Are there any new information…any signs of foul play?”

“No,” Angie says with a tight-lipped smile. “She left of her own accord.”

“Doesn’t mean she couldn’t have been lured out,” Daiyu suggests.

Angie rearranges the ornaments on the table, suddenly blinking fast.

“Detective Russo came to take her electronics as evidence. They went through her computer and phone and confirmed she wasn’t speaking to anyone she wasn’t supposed to.”

“My dear,” Daiyu says, her voice traced with a condescending chide. “Something urgent or someone drew her out of your house at such a time.”

Angie’s hands jump from the glass vase to stop and glare at her heatedly, seething silently.

“Should we call Katherine?”

Angie drags her gaze to look back at Jada. “Maybe you will have better luck than me. All my calls go straight to voicemail.”

“She hasn’t been seen in public in the last few years. And I understand that…to lose a child like that, with no solace to know if she’s alive or dead.”

Jada shakes her head absently. “I heard Erin’s grandparents planned a private funeral and buried an empty casket.”

Eventually, their orders arrive.

The server transfers cups from tray to table with a flourish, setting down Oolong tea before Daiyu, then a pumpkin-spiced latte in front of Angie, a classic cappuccino for Jada, and a dairy-free Dalgona coffee for Irene.

Angie stirs her latte distractedly. “I asked you all here for a checkup on your kids. I know we’ve been through this, the talk, the therapy, but nearly a decade has passed. How have your children been coping?”

Something heavy descends upon them all, thinning the air, augmenting the tension.

Angie looks at Jada pleadingly. She gives a subconscious nod.

“Akin is thriving, really. He’s a star player on the soccer team with a line of recruiters trying to win him over with endorsements and sponsorships.”

Daiyu’s brows crunch at the subtle cajoling. “Opal is an exemplary student with fully paid tuition to Princeton.”

Irene breaks into a small, scornful smile, humored but unimpressed by the dick-measuring.

Daiyu takes a long sip of her tea.

“I never asked how they are ~performing~,” Angie says with a tint of contempt. “I asked how they are coping?

“They suffered a great deal of trauma together and looking back, now that history has repeated itself…perhaps we were all hasty in sweeping it all under the rug because it ~appeared~ that our kids were doing well.

“And they were fine—externally.”

Daiyu moans disagreeably, placing the cup down on the saucer with a harsh clink.

“Do not project your guilt. Our children spent months in therapy, cross-examined by police and counselors. What was worse than what they endured was the aftermath—the fallout—”

“Yes!” Angie shrieks. Mortified, she drops her volume to a furtive whisper, ignoring the glances cast her way. “They had to re-integrate into school and life like nothing ever happened.

“No one at this table can even give a detailed account of what happened, because our kids haven’t given any of us details on what they experienced in those woods.”

“It’s normal,” Jada argues. “The psychiatrist says that tends to happen on the heels of a trauma. You forget things, your memory starts playing tricks on you.

“As for them, because they were at such a tender age, their minds blotted out those memories, repressing them to bury the trauma. Weren’t you listening in those feedback meetings?”

Angie wants to hurl something at her. Instead, she chooses the pacifist route, as she normally does. She attempts a smile.

“That’s not my point. What I was trying to get at was the ominous circumstances of that ordeal, running parallel to Keila’s disappearance. We’ve seen these signs before with Erin.”

Irene picks up her cup. It trembles, and it does not go unnoticed.

“What about you?” Angie pokes.

Irene sets her coffee back down with an angered huff. “What ~about~ me?”

“Your daughter, Mia. How has she been coping?”

Irene hides her shaky hands under the table.

“She’s not okay,” she admits without filtering her words. “Hasn’t been since then. She has lost a lot and I’m not going to pretend that my kid is okay. Can anyone be okay after suffering a trauma that we don’t even understand?

“Our kids were too young—too scared to even comprehend what happened. All we had was scraps of information from what they could articulate.”

Angie falls back into her seat with a semi-relieved sigh. “Thank you. My point exactly.”

“Don’t thank me.” Aggression drained the warmth from Irene’s tone.

“We are on the eve of a disaster. Only chaos can come from this. If this resembles what happened to Erin—which it does—it will happen to all our kids. I fear that somehow…they’re all connected.”